


Before

by oleanderhoney



Series: The Colour of Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst and Humor, Canon Divergence, Gen, girl!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which John Watson is actually Jane Watson, and how the story would have progressed based on this. Part one of this AU fic -- a prologue of sorts on what the Consulting Detective and the ex-Army Doctor were up to in the months before their auspicious meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to try my hand at the genderswapping business. Hopefully I can make Jane as in character as possible even though she is a girl. I will be uploading part two of this series nearly immediately after this so there will be more of a chance to ease people into the characters.
> 
> Feedback is most helpful!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the affiliating characters. They belong to Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.

* * *

_September 22nd_

“One, Captain Watson, please come to the ticket counter.” 

The speaker crackles overhead jarring Jane out of her dark reverie. She had been sitting in the airport for the better part of seven hours on layover with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her, so the brief respite that halted the introspective spiral threatening to drag her further into the Grey was welcome if not somewhat disconcerting. She tries her best not to let the sudden anxiety gnaw through her stomach, as paralysing thoughts of further delay raced through her mind. It was ridiculous, she knew, but ever since the hospital she feared she would never make it back to London. 

Breathing deep, she snaps the elastic hair band off her wrist and smoothes her hair back into a ponytail to give herself something trivial to do. Her hair really was getting too long, and the feel of it brushing against the nape of her neck instead of pinned in its neat bun was foreign. She rises achingly to her feet, and slings her duffle over her good shoulder, not willing to leave her things alone regardless of the deserted airport, and heads for the young woman behind the counter.

“Hi, hello,” she starts, her voice raspy with disuse. She clears it. “I’m Janette Watson.”

The young woman smiles, her straight white teeth dazzling against her dark lipstick. Even through the Grey seeping into her vision, Jane could tell it was a garish shade of crimson. “Captain Watson. On behalf of British Airways and her Majesty’s Royal Army, your seat has been upgraded to first class for the remainder of your flight.”

“Sorry, first class?” she asks, tearing her eyes away from the woman’s mouth. For a second she almost saw a flash of red, but it vanished before she could tell if it was real or not.

“Yes, Captain Watson. As a gesture for your sacrifice,” she says smiling her plasticine smile and trying not to look at Jane's left shoulder that was currently done up with gauze and peeking out from under her olive green vest.

Jane bristles, plucking at the hem of her shirt. “Er. Well if it’s all the same to you, I will just keep my seat in economy, thanks.” Her tone was clipped, hard.

The young woman’s smile fades slightly. “But Captain Watson —”

“Doctor. I’m not a Captain anymore,” she says. She couldn’t bear to be called Captain by this woman one more time, because it was true: she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be anything she wasn’t, and she especially didn’t like how utterly useless she felt when this simple fact dawned on her time and time again through the use of the appelation. Doctor was better. She was still that for the most part. She massages the tremor of her left hand, more out of a subconscious gesture of relieving tension than anything.

“Yes, of course. Doctor Watson. We will void your first class assignment.”

“Why don’t you give it to him just there?” she asks, nodding her head in the direction of a young man curled haphazardly in the crook of an awful plastic airport bench. He was stranded like her, and had been attempting to catch a few winks unsuccessfully for the past hour. “You can, can’t you?”

“Yes that’s not a problem, if that is what you wish?”

“I do.”

“All right that’s just fine. Enjoy your flight Cap – Doctor Watson. Thank you for flying British Airways,” she says flashing her teeth again.

Jane nods and walks back to her seat. She drops back into her chair just as the woman makes her way to the young man’s prone form. Her lips twitch into a faint smile. At least someone would be getting good use out of her _sacrifice._ The bitterness she tastes in the back of her throat causes the smile to fall from her face. 

To stop herself from thinking, she stares out the wide window and watches the sky lighten bit by bit in what she assumes is a beautiful sunrise, vermillion and gold like she remembered from the deserts of Afghanistan. She screws up her eyes _willing_ the colours — burning vivid and bright in her mind’s-eye — into existence. But the only thing she manages is to give herself a headache in the end. She watches the gradients of gunmetal and graphite until her plane taxies up to the gate.


	2. Tedium

* * *

_October 13th_

Sherlock Holmes is having a bad day, if being bound by the wrists while being held over the ledge of a balcony by a very large Russian is any indication. (Dull.) 

“What did you do with it, Holmes?” his antagonist, Vako Kasakov growls in his face, his breath sour as it buffets against his skin. It makes him want to gag.

“Dumped it in the Thames, what else? – you inbred _waste_ of carbon and brain matter.”

“Shut up you shit,” Kasakov snaps. Sherlock sighs at his lack of creativity. He hoped one day he would meet a foe that had a penchant for verbal sparring. Of course, what more could he expect from a low-brow drug runner?

“Tell me. Does it bother you your parents were related?”

Kasakov’s face contorts in fury, and he slams Sherlock even harder against the railing of the balcony. His fists were crushed painfully to the small of his back as he arched over even further. 

“You better shut your mouth when you’re talking to me!” he spits, and Sherlock rolls his eyes biting back another scathing insult (god the idiocy) but just barely. He just needed Kasakov to shift just a bit to the left, balancing most of his weight on his bad knee, (rheumatoid arthritis) (old football injury) any more provocation, and they would both go tumbling to the ground in front of the Regency Arms and — ah there it is!

Before his aggressor can even blink, Sherlock hooks his foot behind the other man’s (right) ankle while simultaneously unclasping the handcuffs behind his back that he picked with a safety pin in the time it took to antagonise the imbecile. (Child’s play. Not even police issue.) 

He then wallops the man once in the side, and when Kasakov releases his shirt collar in surprise, Sherlock hits him hard on the side of his good knee. His legs collapse underneath him like an ironing board, and Sherlock straightens his jacket before cuffing him to the metal railing. 

“Bastard _govnosos!”_ he wheezes, pulling at the cuff.

“Yes, yes, shut up now,” Sherlock says, the boredom already creeping in. He pulls out his mobile and rapidly fires off a text.

_Kasakov. Regency Arms. Room 631.  
SH_

He marches back into the dingy hotel room and snatches a crumpled pack of cigarettes that have fallen on the floor from the upturned coffee table. He lights one and smokes it down to the filter in an impressive five drags, mashing it angrily into the ashtray. The nicotine floods his veins, but it is short lived, and he lights another while flopping down on the mangy sofa. 

By the time Detective Inspector Lestrade shows up, the pack is empty, and the ashtray is full.

“Hello, Freak,” Sally Donovon says, her eyes two points of glittering malice. Sherlock notices her hair is unwashed and scraped back into a messy pony tail. (Recently dumped. Red eyes, up half the night crying. New boyfriend obviously married to a woman from — Chiswick? Boring. Not worth it.)

He doesn’t deign to respond, and instead accosts the DI.

“God it took you long enough. Good thing I’ve always been able to manage despite the lack of competency New Scotland Yard has to offer. He’s on the balcony,” Sherlock dismisses with an indifferent wave of his hand. The couch he’s sitting on smells suddenly like vomit, and he rises edgily to his feet.

Lestrade’s lips purse in a thin line of impatience before nodding at Donovon. She follows suit and picks her way across the disheveled room and opens the sliding glass door where a torrent of inventive Russian insults flow in. (Of course _now_ he decides to be creative?) Just his luck too, Sherlock thinks as he catches one particular vulgar turn of phrase about someone’s mother and a goat. (Have to remember that one for Anderson later.)

“All right. What’ve you got?” Lestrade says pulling a pen out of his breast pocket and flipping open his black notepad.

“Vako Kasakov. His sister, Masha, is involved in a sex ring. You’ll find her in Soho working at _Madame’s Massage Parlour._ Get her out, and Kasakov will tell you everything you need to know about his boss,” he says succinctly, and turns to leave, suddenly very tired.

“Wait. That’s it? You’re not going to bamboozle us with your findings?” Lestrade asks, his eyebrows inching their way towards his hairline.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “It doesn’t take much to amaze you, Inspector. I had assumed my leap between the sex ring and the drug syndicate would have been sufficient for you. I’m tired, and I want to go home,” he snaps. (Why was it all so bloody monotonous?)

“I’ll still need a statement. It looks like you two had a bit of a domestic, and that cut on your forehead could use looking at.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Sherlock —”

“ _Tomorrow,_ Lestrade. I assure you I’ll be in first thing, and perhaps I can regale you with my astounding if not obvious deductions. The whole dog-and-pony show, and whatnot,” he waves a hand apathetically, and gathers his coat from off the back of a chair.

“All right, but I better see you tomorrow, Sherlock. I mean it. I’m already backed up on paper work as it is.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and sweeps out of the room before he can listen to any more useless drabble.

He thinks about getting a cab back to Montague Street, but decides against it last minute. It’s not like he wanted to go back to that miserable flat where the second he closed the door he would be crushed by the never ending shroud of boredom he tried so desperately to ward off. His mobile pings in his trouser pocket, and he ignores it. Already he could feel his mind reeling out, desperate for stimulation and intrigue. It was like a wildfire, all consuming and burnt up everything in its wake. 

He slips a hand into his coat pocket, and fingers that insidious bag of powder. 

So maybe not all of it made it into the Thames after all. 

Mycroft would kill him. Lestrade would most likely throw him off his crew. Which at one point would have been unacceptable to him. But now…even The Work was becoming tedious. He was mostly brought in on larceny cases and crime rings which were usually predictable and dull, and at the end of the day he was still left with nothing but the howling in his head and only himself to pass the time. (Which admittedly, he of all people was not the best company.)

He turns left into Regent’s Park and ambles across York Bridge, coming to a stop in the middle. He leans against the guard rail, and observes the people passing by. After deducing where several people came from based on their gait, clothes, and the way their mouths shaped themselves when they talked (RP accent, cockney, Welsh) he grows tired of the little game and faces away, looking out over the water. He slouches over the rail and stares at his murky reflection because it’s the only person that doesn’t stare back and recoil. His hand drifts to his pocket again.

Does he really want to do this? The answer from the reckless drug addict inside of him screams _yes, yes, I really do_ while the other part of him weakly argues back. The truth is, he is coming up with fewer and fewer reasons to stay sober these days. 

He takes out the small packet and smacks it against his palm as he contemplates. If this were some sort of caricature of his life, he wouldn’t be surprised if a cartoon angel and devil appeared on either of his shoulders. The image almost makes him laugh out loud. No doubt in his case, only the devil would show up, the angel having lost faith in him long ago. He scowls bitterly at no one in particular, and looks down at the cocaine in his hands.

Already his mind is whirring, compiling a list of things he would need for his indulgent night (new syringes, bottles of water etc.) and step by step he lays out a meticulous plan to avoid being caught. (Three day bender, with a week to recover. Pass it off as ‘flu. Make sure to avoid Mycroft in person by answering his occasional texts, yet ignoring the rest of them so as not to look suspicious.) He’s done it before. It would be easy.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. It wouldn’t even be a decision if he didn’t know what came after the high. 

After his last round of rehab, when he was locked in that terrible room shaking and sweating and aching with need as he detoxed, it occurred to him that it wasn’t the withdrawal that was the worst part, it was the crushing emptiness that the drug only heightened and failed to fill. It was when he started calculating his current weight against milligrams needed to overdose permanently this time, did he peel apart the plastic seam of the bag and dump the contents into the water with finality.

He had promised Mummy after all.

Part of him might have been a little frightened too. (He would never admit it of course.) It occurred to him that cocaine wasn’t enough anymore. It was an _out._ A means to an end. The first time had been an accident, but it also taught him how not to fail.

He keeps the empty packet as a reminder for some reason, and slips it back into his pocket as he trudges his way home.

***

In hindsight, it really was no surprise at all that Mycroft was there waiting for him when he got back.

“Hello, Brother Dear,” Mycroft says in his oily supercilious tones. He sits in Sherlock’s armchair with his legs crossed and his umbrella resting on his knee. Sherlock groans inwardly and resists the urge to bash his head against the wall. 

“Mycroft. To what do I owe this…torture?” he says pulling off his gloves and flinging his coat down on the sofa. He sits in the adjacent armchair — the garish maroon one he got from an Army surplus store — and gives his best put-upon glare even though his heart really isn’t in it. Mycroft regards him curiously for a moment, but if he notices anything amiss he doesn’t say.

“It seems like you had a rather eventful day,” he says instead looking pointedly at the cut above his eye. “You should probably have that looked at.”

Having momentarily forgotten about the cut, Sherlock brings his fingers up and probes at it gently. It was tacky with dried blood and getting puffy and sore. “It’s fine.”

“I’m half inclined to hire a live-in doctor if you continue to insist on this dreadful _detective_ business.” He says the word as if it tasted of vinegar. “I’m sure it’s pointless to tell you yet again that your expertise would be far better put to use in other areas.”

“Completely pointless.”

“Pity.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he snarls, his patience snapping.

“I just wanted to check up on you. You never do answer your phone.”

Sherlock glowers at him as he deduces his true intentions. “Did you make sure to look everywhere this time? Last time you missed the loose baseboard and we all know how well that worked out for all of us.”

Mycroft’s face suddenly darkens with such fury Sherlock isn’t sure if he feels triumphant at getting such a rise out of his brother or a bit scared. He settles with extremely pleased yet ever so slightly concerned. 

He rises to his full height and hooks his umbrella over his forearm while straightening his suit jacket with sharp angry tugs. His mouth thins into a hard line, and he purposefully makes his way over to the sofa where Sherlock’s coat was abandoned earlier. Sherlock rolls his eyes when Mycroft rummages through his pockets. He comes away with the empty packet and holds it up with a quizzical expression.

“In case you’re wondering, I didn’t just snort the lot like some desperate junkie before I got home just to make you angry, although I assume the look on your face would have been priceless. And in the future I would appreciate it if you didn’t look in on the cases I receive from the Met.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Poured it out. I wanted the baggie for a scrap book I’m making. Its working title is ‘Fond Memories of a Constipated Older Brother’ although I have considered shortening it to ‘Pissing Off Croft.’ It has a nice ring to it, but let me know what you think.” Sherlock tucks his knees against his chest and glares hatefully out the window.

“Well,” Mycroft says composing himself. “I will have to say I’m surprised at your self-control.”

“I _am_ an adult, Mycroft.”

“Debatable.” Sherlock grinds his teeth. “What’s changed?”

“Can’t you see? I just have _so much_ to live for,” he says sarcastically, flinging out some twelve step mantra drivel he’d heard once or twice. Mycroft studies him, those sharp eyes stripping him down to sinew and bone. He fights the urge to look away.

“I think not,” Mycroft says quietly, knowingly. The pity in his eyes twists something ugly in his gut.

“Piss off!” Sherlock says suddenly furious. He gets to his feet and hunts around for a pack of cigarettes. “What do you know about me anyway?” He’s out. (Damn.)

“Oh please, Sherlock. Did you forget who you were talking to?”

“Shut up,” he says dangerously, rounding on Mycroft. “You talk and talk, but nothing you say means anything, so just – _shut up.”_

“Why do you have two chairs?” Mycroft says suddenly. His shift in tack is so abrupt it brings Sherlock up short.

“What?”

“Two chairs, Sherlock,” he nods in their direction. “Why did you buy an extra one?”

“I —” Sherlock falters.

“I’m not going to pretend to know what goes on in your head, but I have known you the longest. Could it be your subconscious is trying to tell you something?”

“That I have an affinity for feng shui?” he deflects.

Mycroft looks at him evenly. “I’m reducing your allowance by half.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock nearly yells, his blood boiling. “Is it because you still don’t trust me?”

“Oh, Brother, make no mistake I never trust you to do what’s best for yourself. You haven’t earned that privilege. However, this isn’t about drugs. It’s about you proving yourself since you are so apt to do so. I am willing to let you.”

“So is this you backing off? Loosening my choke collar?”

“For the time being. Although I would start charging a consulting fee from the Met if you want to continue to live in Central London.”

“Lestrade would never agree to it. There are too many…liabilities.”

“Well then. I suggest you get a flatshare.”

“You’re serious,” Sherlock scoffs disdainfully taking in the mildly amused expression on Mycroft’s face. “Come on, Mycroft. Who would want to live with me?’

“I haven’t the faintest. It’s all you now. Figure it out,” he says with a wry arch to his eyebrows. With a pointed thump of his umbrella, he makes his way to the door. “Until next time Sherlock.”

“Good _bye.”_

“Oh I’ve taken the liberty of picking you up a copy of the paper. There are bound to be ads for flatshares in the classifieds. It’s on the table.”

“Yes, all right. I am grateful of your abundant generosity, now will you please leave!” he says ushering Mycroft out of the flat and slamming the door in his face before he could say anything more. He turns and leans his back against the door, and huffs an angry gust out of his nose. (Sod him. _Sod_ him.) 

Sherlock was torn between fuming and slightly glad that Mycroft had partly conceded to letting up his leash. Any freedom from his overbearing brother was better than no freedom, and so with much chagrin he picks up the copy of the Sun and flips through it. He scans some of the ads circled in red before throwing it down in disgust. He could tell just by the wording if said ads were legit, too desperate, or forays into dead ends. He stands in the middle of his small, rarely used kitchen glaring down at the paper as if it had personally affronted him, when he catches the headline on the front page: SIR JEFFERY PATTERSON – CEO OF MARS INC. SUICIDE: WAS THE PRESSURE TOO MUCH?

Sherlock’s eyes flick over the details in the paper while simultaneously bringing up the internet on his mobile. After a moment a grin breaks out on his face, and the buzz of The Game thrills through his veins a thousand times better than cocaine. 

His thumbs fly over the keys in a rapid text to Lestrade:

_Read the papers? We’ve got us a killer.  
SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I particularly love the 'highbrow' insults Sherlock uses on the show, and I would be ever so grateful if anybody had and more creative little barbs up their sleeves. If you have any good insults that you can picture Sherlock saying to Anderson or to the general populous (seeing as how they're all idiots) I am all ears! Thanks for reading and as always any and all feed back is wonderful!


	3. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane makes it back in time to spend Christmas with her family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. So this is the second go on this chapter. Formatting got all wonky. Anyway.

* * *

_December 24th_

Jane takes advantage of the forty minute cab ride to her mother’s house to steel herself. It had been seven years since she’d been back to Weybridge, and she was practically a ball of anxiety. She knew she had come back different, perhaps a little damaged and injured, having seen and done things— well that her family couldn’t begin to fathom. Her temper was short, and her tolerance for ignorance was even shorter. It was going to be interesting, being around her mother who insisted on cramming everyone into their neat little boxes in order to preserve the illusion of perfection she tried so hard to paint. Of course, her sister did a fantastic job at blowing the top off of that when she announced to their parents that she was a lesbian at the age of sixteen. Remembering the horrified look on their mother’s face when she insisted on being called Harry instead of Harriet brings a fond smile to her lips. Just thinking about her, eases the knot in her stomach. Harry promised she would be there, she _had_ to be there.

She presses her forehead against the cold window. 

All of Surrey was practically lit up like one giant roman candle which was lovely apart from the fact that the colours all blurred together, red, gold, and green all indistinguishable from each other. She thought that being back would have changed this, but every morning she woke up and it was the same; that Grey ceiling in her depressing bedsit staring balefully back at her. The thing was, she _knew_ what everything looked like, knew which colours belonged to what — it was just her eyes refused to see them for some reason as if reminding her of her abject sense of purposelessness. It was bloody infuriating, and no one could explain it. The third time she went into the doctor, they suggested given her circumstances, she should start seeing a therapist. She still had the bloke’s number tucked into her wallet. Every time she thought about making an appointment something always stopped her, excuses and whatnot. But now, it was going on four months with no change. Perhaps she was well and truly cracked. What was the harm in trying? Maybe that would be her New Year’s resolution for herself. It was a better plan than she currently had which was none, so there was that.

“45 Mockingbird Lane, Miss,” the cabbie says, jolting Jane out of her musings.

“Right. Yes, thanks. How much?”

“Tell yer wot,” he winks at her in the rearview mirror. “Give us a tenner and have a Happy Christmas, eh?”

Jane blinks craning her neck to see the meter. It was nearly forty quid.

“Oh I couldn’t possibly —” 

“I insist, Miss. Not every day I get to drive around a pretty lady. But do me a favour. Chin up. It’s the Holidays.”

Stunned by his generosity, she climbs out of the cab, slinging her trusty duffle over her good shoulder. “Thank you,” she says through the window trying to imbue as much sincerity as she can into her words. “Merry Christmas.”

He tuts good-naturedly and winks one last time before driving off. Jane watches the tail lights all the way down to the end of the block, desperately wishing she was inside and on her way back to the train station where she came from. She looks at the picturesque Victorian house with the country shutters forlornly. It’s decorated from top to bottom like the rest of the houses on the block. It was a wonder something so cheery could bring about such dread within her.

“Don’t be a coward, Janey,” she admonishes. “You invaded Afghanistan for crying out loud.” She takes a step towards the house. “You’re a Captain in her Majesty’s Royal Army.” A slick, swift nausea settles low in her stomach. “You’re a Doctor. A damn good one too. You can handle your own mother, for chrissakes.”

She barely gets a chance to knock before the door is flung open wide, buffeting her with the heavenly smells of ham and spices and buttery rosemary biscuits.

“Janette!” her mother cries, unshed tears in her eyes. They were purely for show, of course. Her mother was always into theatrics. She’s nearly mauled to death, her head being crushed into her mother’s chest like the prodigal son before she even gets a chance to say hello, or step into the house for that matter.

“Hi Mum,” Jane manages into a wooly cardigan bedecked with holly.

Her mother pulls her back and looks at her seriously. “‘Hi mum?’ I’ve not seen you for the better part of a _decade_ and all you say with your pretty mouth is ‘hi mum’?” She puts on her best put-upon scowl and cups her chin.

“It’s been hardly a decade, Mum. Don’t be so dramatic,” Jane says. Despite herself, a twinge of affection pings in her chest at her mother’s nattering.

“Well come in then, and see everybody! Couldn’t have got here any sooner could you? Of course not, you’re a fancy doctor now, saving lives in the big city. Can’t expect you to remember us country folk,” her mother yammers on, dragging Jane in by her wrist. It was like she was a nuclear bomb: all intensity and expectation.

“No Mum, I’m not —” she tries to correct, but it was pointless as her mother carries on like a bloody steamroller.

“Now go upstairs and change out of those horrid clothes, you smell like the train you rode in on. I laid out a jumper I made you especially for Christmas, and cleared out a drawer in your old room. I expect you’ll be staying through until New Years.” It wasn’t a question or a request, and Jane swallows.

“Actually, Mum, I’m going back the twenty-eighth so…” she trails off under that sharp gaze. She hates how it made her feel like she was young and awkward again. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” she says with finality, and all but pushes her up the stairs. “Go get changed Janette, and come see everyone!”

Shaking her head and feeling positively bowled over by a tornado, Jane trudges to her old room dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor before flicking on the lights.

The room was Spartan, like it had always been. She never really had much uses for many things like other girls when she was growing up. Just a bookcase full of well-read paperbacks, a small writing desk, and a poster of her favourite rugby team over her bed was sufficient. Jane was always the type that would rather be out in the world doing things than cooped up in her room. Harry’s room on the other hand, had always been reminiscent of a bomb site, the epicenter usually being her bed or her overflowing closet. The bathroom they shared as girls was even more horrifying. She shakes her head fondly at the memory, and sits on her narrow bed next to the gaudy jumper her mother mentioned. She tugs it over her head, and flops backwards on the dusty mattress with a huff. At least it was warm even if it did have a life size Rudolph on the front. She lays there for a moment, luxuriating in the familiar, the back of her hand smoothing the worn duvet when she notices something’s missing.

Her grandmother’s hand made quilt that was almost always folded neatly on the end of her bed was gone.

Jane sits up, panicked at first. It’s an heirloom, and one of her most beloved possessions. Her Grand-mère and her namesake, Janette Elfeire, stitched a quilt for her husband who fought in the First World War. For what ever reason, she entrusted it to her care when she was a little girl, and Jane took her charge very seriously. She remembers hiding under it when she woke up from nightmares, and letting the scent of lavender that reminded her so much of Grand-mère wash over her.

She’s half way across the room intent on tearing apart the house in order to find it, when the thought hits her that her mother obviously had a hand in its mysterious disappearance. She feels like laughing at her idiocy when she realises it’s not that mysterious after all, because it is Christmas, and chances are it’s sitting under the tree with her name on it. Her mother was always clever like that and how fitting too after her most recent endeavours. Maybe her homecoming wouldn’t be so bad after all. She smiles, and makes her way down stairs. 

“There she is!” her mother sings, and a chorus of ‘seasons greetings’ and ‘welcome homes’ bombard her, and before she knows it, she's being passed around the room.

“These are all the ladies from my Tuesday book club!” her mother explains delightfully as a woman with silver hair styled into an impressive bouffant and loads of mascara pinches her cheek. Jane wouldn’t be surprised if she would have a mark there later.

“Oh Celeste, she is a doll!” Mable (Mavis?) says with a wide grin. Jane feels as if she was seven again, and she bristles at the fact. It wasn’t like she was in her thirties and a decorated war hero or anything…

Suddenly, a miniature bulldozer hits the back of her legs at full force almost making her fall forward.

“Eddie, darling,” her mother chides as she tugs the little boy by the elbow so he will focus on her. “What did I say about running in the house?”

“Sorry, Auntie,” the little boy mumbles, twisting his shirt collar up and into his mouth to chew on it diffidently.

“Now go get a spot of treacle, there’s a good boy,” she says and ruffles his hair as he goes bounding off in the direction of the kitchen which no doubt had every surface occupied with sweets and snacks galore.

“Is that really Edward?” Jane asks, stunned. “Last time I saw him he was a baby.”

“Yes, he has grown. But that’s what children do, dear. You would know if you bothered to visit more often.”

“Well it wasn’t like I could just get up and come down whenever I felt like it.”

“Oh sure you could. You could have tried harder,” her mother sniffed.

“I was fighting a war, Mum. Not on Holiday.”

“Keep your voice down!” her mother says in a harsh whisper. She grips Jane’s wrist as she did little Eddie’s, and Jane tries not to let the sudden flare of her temper get the best of her. 

“I got _shot_ ,” Jane says her tone rising, yanking her arm out of her mother’s reprimanding grasp. With a hard look her mother steers her away from the sitting room full of aunts and uncles and insufferable ‘book club’ patrons and stuffy people from the country club, and into the hall.

“That’s enough!” her mother bites out. Jane steps back as if she were physically slapped, which to be honest, she wouldn’t put it past her to do so. 

So they were back to this again, were they? Her mother pretending the war didn’t exist so that the quintessential family she tried so hard to uphold would remain intact in front of the people she so desperately wanted approval from. Can’t have a daughter of hers haring off to join the Army like some plebeian, no sir. God only knows what she told them about her and why she was gone, or about Harry for that matter —

“Did you even invite Harry this year?” Jane asks suddenly, an edge in her voice.

Her mother blinks at the sudden change in tack before smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. “Your sister _Harriet_ is allowed to come over any time she wants as long as she leaves the trash at the door.”

The blatantly cruel remark has Jane nearly incensed. Good god no wonder she’d kept away for so long. With the pretence of Christmas, she almost forgot how spiteful her mother could be.

“Jesus. I would have thought that by now you would have got over the fact. I mean, she married a woman for crying out loud, and you've had over a decade to accept it. If Dad were here —”

“Well he’s not!” her mother practically shouts, her composure dissolving, and Jane can see it, the perfect place to attack, the perfect thing to say that will push her over the edge. Something barbed and hateful that would launch them into their familiar dance of verbal assault where past failures and expectations were waiting to be hurtled at one another like proverbial grenades. 

She’s always been good at riling her mother up, and in the past she wouldn’t have hesitated one bit. But now she bites her tongue. She’s so tired of fighting and destruction, having seen enough for a lifetime, and if her mother found solace in her little artificial world, then so be it. At least she managed to find some happiness somewhere.

Jane closes her eyes and huffs a breath out of her nose. “Mum. Let’s not…okay? It’s Christmas. I’m sorry, all right?”

Her mother looks taken aback, and the expression on her face is baffled, yet haunted. It makes Jane itch to get away from it for some reason, and she can’t put her finger on it until her mother’s eyes drift towards her left shoulder. Her wound prickles under the weight of that gaze.

“You’ve changed, Janette,” her mother says, and Jane is startled by the sudden, real tears glistening in her mother’s eyes. Her hand tentatively reaches towards her shoulder, and Jane panics and intercepts the hand with her own.

“Nope,” she smiles. She hopes it’s not as broken as she feels, and gives her an encouraging squeeze. “Same old Janey. Champing at the bit for a row, mouth as big as Australia.” Quoting her father twists something painful in her chest, but it has the desired effect when her mother laughs. “But it’s Christmas, yeah?”

“Yes it is,” her mother says, slipping back into that starched and untouchable persona. “Go in the kitchen and get you something to eat. There’s still ham left over, and all sorts of nibbles and things. We’ll do presents in a bit.”

Jane swallows hard, and lets her mother hug her tightly before she rushes off to play venerable hostess once more. She rotates her shoulder under the jumper to ease some of the tension, and wanders off in search for a stiff drink.

***

The presents on Christmas Eve were mostly for the kids, so they were handed out first. Within minutes the quaint sitting room looked like a miniature Chernobyl of ribbon, bow ties, tinsel, and wrapping paper, and the adults were snapping pictures while the little ones squealed and chased each other with wooden swords. 

Jane sits quietly on the settee across from the tree and watches one of her baby cousins carefully fold the shiny paper into fourths so as not to spoil it. It’s astonishing how many new cousins she seems to have, a testament to life outside of her stint in an entirely different world. It’s almost as if she’s a voyeur, looking at the little girl obliviously happy and only at the beginning of her life…

The breath catches in her throat, and her arms wrap about her abdomen as if she’s trying to hold herself together. More than anything she wants to run her fingers through the little girl’s golden ringlets, but before she gets the chance to act on the impulse, Jane’s Aunt Tula calls her over.

“Annabelle, sweetheart! Show Nana your pretty dolly.”

The little girl, Annabelle, jumps to her feet, dress nearly dragging on the floor, a Barbie crushed to her chest. She giggles as she practically flings herself into her Nana’s arms. Aunt Tula beams at Jane, talking quietly in Annabelle’s ear. After a moment, she waves shyly at Jane, and before Jane could wave back, buries her face in her hands with another giggle.

“All right little darlings!” her mother’s sing-song voice floats through the sitting room. “Time for bed!” There were collective groans from the children as they were herded like little lambs downstairs to the den to await Father Christmas.

Jane watches them go one by one, their eyes bright with sleep and excitement. Something in her chest disconnects. The roaring hollowness fills her with its dull ache as she remembers how _they_ scraped her out from the inside and left nothing, not even hope.

So lost in her thoughts was she that she almost didn’t notice the persistent tugging on her hand.

“Hello,” Jane says in response to Annabelle’s sweet smile.

“We have to go asleep,” she says. “For Santa to come.”

“Yes that’s right,” Jane smiles.

“Tuck me in?”

The smile on her face grows wider, and this time she gives in and cards her hand through Annabelle’s silky hair. “Of course. Lead the way.”

They go over and Jane’s Aunt Tula hands her Annabelle’s overnight bag.

“I see you’ve made friends, Bella,” Aunt Tula says and gives Jane a winning smile. “Welcome home, Jane. Lacey wanted to be here, but she had to work. She told me to pass on her love. I know how close you all were when you were younger.”

“Thanks Auntie. Give Lacey my love as well, and tell her when you see her she has a beautiful daughter,” Jane says, and lets herself be dragged down stairs to the den where all of the other kids were sprawled out on the floor with blankets and sleeping bags. A wave of nostalgia washes over her. When they were kids, her and Harry would zip their sleeping bags together and try to stay up as long as they possibly could, listening astutely for sleigh bells and reindeer. They never made it very long before falling asleep together in the warmth and glow of pure unbridled happiness that one only seems to experience during childhood.

Annabelle bounds over to the nest of pillows near the bookcases giggling with Eddie and Eddie’s older sister Eva. She drags her lovely Christmas dress over her head unashamedly as young children were wont to do, and plops herself down expectantly. Jane crouches down and rummages in the bag, tugging out the pair of princess pyjamas neatly folded on top.

“I do it!” Annabelle says, and Jane watches her make sense of the shirt, her face screwed up in intense concentration as she works out that the picture of the crown goes in front. Jane laughs when she next attempts to wiggle into her bottoms while still sitting on the floor.

She sweeps the little girl up, chuckling at her shriek of laughter, and tugs the little bottoms the rest of the way up before tickling her under the chin.

“All set?” Jane asks, and Annabelle slides off her lap.

“Yes,” she says sagely, and flops down between Eddie and Eva who are both almost asleep at this point and blinking up at her owlishly. “Blankie,” she says and points to her bag. Jane digs around in the bag again until her fingers brush fabric. She unfurls the soft and worn material and the unmistakable scent of lavender washes over her: Grand-mère’s quilt. Her thumbs run along the stitching. “Dolly too,” Annabelle’s sweet little voice pipes, pulling Jane out of her reverie.

“Right,” she says, and hands the Barbie to Annabelle while tucking the quilt under her chin. Her fingers are reluctant to break contact with the quilt, so she rests her hand on Annabelle’s warm foot. “This is a lovely blanket. Where did you get it?”

“Auntie Celeste for my birthday,” she says sleepily. “Said it was for big girls. I’m a big girl.”

“That’s right, you sure are,” Jane nods squeezing her foot. She tries to rid the sudden lump in her throat, and the cold that washes over her. “And I bet you’ll take really good care of it, won’t you?”

“Mmhm,” she nods, her eyes closing as she burrows down further into the pillows. Jane smiles sadly and waits until she can hear Annabelle’s tiny snuffling snores before pulling herself up and quietly ascending the stairs.

“Sweet little things aren’t they?” her mother simpers when she enters the kitchen. She takes a seat at the table and watches as she buzzes about, tossing things into Tupperware and wrapping up the ham with foil. “Just precious.”

“Yeah. Little Annabelle is something…” Jane trails off letting her mother clatter about a bit longer. “You gave her Grand-mère’s quilt,” she says quietly after a minute.

Her mother pauses only slightly before resuming with the plastic wrap. “I did. Yes.”

“But that was supposed to go to me.”

“It’s not like you were using it.”

“No but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it. Grand-mère left it to me.”

“I just thought it would be best if it went to your cousin Lacey,” her mother says practically. “My mother would have wanted an heirloom like that to be passed down from generation to generation. Lacey has Annabelle and another on the way; it’s only ideal, Janette.”

“Er…what are you saying, exactly?” Jane asks, her temper beginning to hum under her skin.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re having children any time soon. You don’t even have a young man set aside or anything. And your sister…well it’s not like she’s getting any younger or any less queer for that matter,” her mother snorts. It’s clear she’s had maybe one too many brandies that evening.

Jane feels as if she’s been struck by a blow. That hollow feeling rings out within her, and she quickly latches on to the other potent feeling bolting through her like electricity. Anger doesn’t even begin to describe what she feels at that moment. She grinds her teeth together trying to rein herself in. “You’re impossible.”

Her mother stops, and takes in Jane’s rigid posture and thunderous expression. She slaps her hands down on the counter, livid. “Think of how it is for me! Just for once, you selfish child!” Jane’s head snaps up, eyes flashing.

“Me? Selfish?”

“Did you ever think how it was for me when you left? All on my own. Your sister gone ‘round the twist, your father dead! You were all that was left. Then you had to go and hare off half way around the world, and why? Could you really not stand the sight of me?”

“I didn’t join the Army to get away from you, Mum. Not everything me and Harry do is because of you.”

“Sure fooled me,” her mother spits.

“You know, for someone who is so bloody terrified of being alone you sure are an expert of driving people away!” Jane snaps leaping to her feet, her pent up anger finally getting the best of her. “God, no wonder Dad wanted to move out! But god forbid it if he ever did, you might have guilted him to death before that happened. He’s just lucky he beat you to it!” The words are like a double edged sword that cut her just as much on the way out, and she instantly regrets them. Her mother claps her mouth shut with an audible click, blinking against a sudden fury of tears, her face flushing. She makes her way across the room, eyes pointedly fixed on the wall.

“Mum…wait. That’s not — I didn’t mean —” She tries to grab her shoulder.

Her mother spins around shaking her off, her eyes ablaze with livid, unshed tears. “I think you should get some rest. You don’t want to miss your train in the morning.”

“Right,” she says, her heart cramping in her chest.

“I hope you’re happy. You’ve ruined Christmas. Your father would be disappointed in you,” her mother says coldly before continuing out into the lounge to her remaining guests. Even though her voice sounds cheery, Jane can hear the slight waver there.

“Way to go, Janey,” she mumbles and stands abjectly in the middle of the kitchen for a moment before pulling the jumper she was wearing over her head. She folds it neatly and places it on the table before making her way up the dark staircase.

***

Jane wakes with a start to the sound of what she thinks is machine-gun fire. For a moment, she panics not recoginising her immediate surroundings, and before she can catch up with herself, she’s on her feet thrumming with adrenaline. Her eyes flash wildly around her childhood bedroom, and she exhales a shaky breath, wiping the damp sweat from her hairline. She practically jumps out of her skin when the cacophony that had woken her pierces through the silence for the second time.

Not machine-gun fire, or shrapnel for that matter she realises, as she makes her way to the window just in time to see a flurry of pebbles raining down against the glass. She opens the window, and pokes her head out, peering into the dim moonlight.

“Janey? Is that you?”

“Harry?”

“Wizard! Knew I’d get you eventually,” Harry says, and breaks out in a string of giggles.

“What are you doing here?”

“Promised I’d come!” she shouts, and Jane hurriedly shushes her. “God, it’s freezing.”

“Hang on, come ‘round to the front, I’ll let you in,” Jane says and ducks back into the room.

As quiet as she can, she creeps past the guest rooms and down the stairs, being careful to skip the third step from the top that still creaks like a dying cat, and makes it to the front door.

“Hey sis!” Harry says a little too loud, and practically falls into her in a clumsy hug. Jane can smell the alcohol on her.

“Oh, Harry. What are you doing here?” Jane murmurs, and helps her sister into the house.

“You really didn't think I would abandon you to deal with the Dragon Lady all by yourself did you?” Harry says in a stage whisper that really isn’t quiet at all. Jane rolls her eyes, and together they stagger back up to her room.

“Jesus, Harry, your fingers are like icicles. How long were you out there for?”

“Forty-five minutes. You sleep bloody hard, did you know? I tried one pebble, and that didn’t work at all. It always works in the films, you know,” Harry remarks sagely as Jane plops her down on the edge of the bed.

“Well I’m glad you didn’t decide on banging on the door at…what time is it anyhow?”

Harry takes her mobile out of her jacket pocket and squints at it. “Three-thirty.”

“Christ. You smell like a pub, did you know?”

“Well I should think so seeing as that’s where I was all night.” Jane gives her a stern look. “Don’t worry I didn’t drive here. I took a taxi. Car’s still at Brewster’s.”

“Hang on. When did you get in? Where’s Clara?”

Harry looks at her blearily, her face contorting in a grimace of pain as she takes a stuttering breath. She quickly shakes it off, and throws herself back on the bed in mock exasperation. “Why the twenty questions, Janey? I’m tired let’s just talk in the morning.”

Jane’s heart sinks. This night has gone from bad to worse. She massages her shoulder as it starts to throb from the chill. She goes over to the small wardrobe and rummages around for a decent shirt that could be used as a pyjama top, and a pair of track bottoms.

“Here. Put these on and get into bed. You’ll warm up faster,” she says and goes downstairs again to get a glass of water and the trash bin. When she returns Harry is sitting back against the headboard staring at her feet with a frown.

“These are too short. My ankles are cold,” she whines.

“That’s because they’re mine, now budge up,” Jane says and peels back the duvet. She shimmies in beside her and tries not to wince at her cold feet. She should have pulled out some socks. “If you’re going to be sick try to aim for the bin. I set in on the floor next to your head to increase accuracy,” she grumbles and snaps off the bedside lamp.

“You’re angry at me,” Harry says into the dark in a small voice.

“Yes. I am,” Jane huffs. “You promised you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I know, I _know_ ,” Harry groans and tugs the blanket over her head. She sniffs loudly, and the bed starts to shake lightly with repressed sobs.

“Hey,” Jane soothes, and sidles up next to her even closer so she can pull the blanket down and stroke her sister’s tangled hair. “Just sleep for now. We’ll sort it out later.”

“Clara left me,” she says. “I’m a fuck up, Janey. I’m surprised she stayed with me as long as she did.”

“Hush, Harry. It’s all right. We’ll just try harder next time, yeah?”

“What’s the point? Everyone expects me to slip up again anyway.” It’s supposed to sound bitter, but to Jane’s ears it’s more of a cold acceptance. 

“Harriet Watson,” Jane says with a hard commanding edge in her voice. “I will never forgive you if you give up. That to me is unacceptable. Even if you make a mistake or backslide, it’s far better than not trying. Do you hear me? I’ve already buried my own father, I don’t want to bury my sister due to liver failure.”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath. “Do you think I didn’t feel the same way?” she says, her voice watery. “When I found out you got bloody shot out there? Christ, Janey. You couldn’t have just stayed here and be a normal doctor could you? Needed to run away from all of us.”

“Harry I didn’t run away!”

“Oh, oh yes you did,” she guffaws. “I don’t blame you though. With Mum being as neurotic as she is, and me as your loveable drunk sister it’s no wonder.”

“Stoppit,” Jane says equally hurt and ashamed. The thing about a drunk Harry, was she was an honest Harry with an uncanny ability to expose the truth. Harry turns over so she can stare at her in the face. Her eyes narrow.

“Why did it take you a month before you told me you were back in London, then? And don’t give me that bollocks about not being able to get in touch.”

“It’s true though. I told you, I had just got back and couldn’t afford a phone.” She averts her gaze feeling like she used to when they were young and she could never pull one over on her older sister.

“You’re a bloody awful liar,” Harry says curling her lip. She flings the bedclothes back and half stumbles across the dark room much to the protests of Jane. She finds her discarded jacket and digs furiously in the pockets for something. She finally makes her way back to the bed with something in her hand, and before Jane can question her, she throws the object at her and it lands with a soft _fhump_ on her stomach. “Merry Christmas. Now you don’t have any excuses not to call.”

“But it’s your phone. How do I call you if you’re giving me your phone?” Jane asks.

Harry’s brow furrows. “I clearly didn’t think this through,” she says annoyed at herself, and Jane can’t help but to huff a laugh.

“I don’t want your phone, Harry. I’ll get one eventually.”

“No! No you have to take that one. Please? It’ll make me feel better, and besides I have the money to get a new one right away. Just…I don’t want that one.”

“Why is this so important?” Jane asks, puzzled at Harry’s ardent insistence. When Harry doesn’t answer, Jane examines the phone. The wallpaper on the home screen is a picture of her and Clara, and when she turns it over she sees the engraving: _To Harry from Clara xxx_. “Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry.”

Harry sniffs loudly again and curls on her side away from her. “It doesn’t matter. Just try to stay in touch all right? And let me know when you get back to London tomorrow even if it’s just email. It’s a smart phone. It does email, you know.”

“How did you know I’m leaving tomorrow?”

Harry snorts at this. “Please. I left you alone with _Mum_. I’m frankly surprised the house is still standing to be honest.”

Jane chuckles sadly and pulls the duvet back up over her shoulders.

“I miss Dad,” Harry says, her voice heavy as she sinks down into sleep.

“Me too.” Jane says even though her sister doesn’t hear. She sits there until the sun comes up, and when that hateful Grey light filters into her room, she makes a decision.

She needs a change, and her mind drifts back to the white business card in her wallet with the therapist’s information printed in neat block letters. It’s time she got her life back. She looks at her sister’s prone form. It’s time she was useful to somebody again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is then end of part one of this little series! Hopefully I did the characters justice. Next part will undoubtedly be a redeux of ASiP. Feed back is helpful!
> 
> Oh yes and I diverged from Watson being of Scottish descent to Jane being of the French. Because: reasons.


End file.
